Mary Hobson

Snow in Zaraisk

A dangerous weight of snow
is overhanging my window.
It slid from the roof for a foot or two
one sunny morning.
But the frost caught it.
So there it hangs,
waiting for spring.
Embedded in the icy underside of this projection,
etched blackly, like a fly in white amber,
a twig with three berries
and a skeletal leaf,
caught by the first snow,
waits with it.
I am keeping an eye on things.
Dripping, dependent icicles have appeared.
The fall will be spectacular.